


An Eve Of New Beginnings

by OUATgirl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other, Post-Canon, armageddon 2.0, happy 30th aniversary good omens, we're going there, yes - Freeform, you read that right
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:35:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24112903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OUATgirl/pseuds/OUATgirl
Summary: It's been two years since the Armageddon't. But Hell seems to have found a new motto, and it starts with "If at first you don't succeed..."So there's a new Antichrist. And Crowley and Aziraphale need to do things right this time.Which obviously means, they have to adopt the little thing****Based off a post on Tumblr that I expanded wayy too much
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18





	1. The Arrangement

**Author's Note:**

> Um, hi  
> So, May seems to be THE Good Omens month,  
> Thirty Years ago we had the book, one year ago we had the show, so let's celebrate  
> I'm new to this style of writing, so feedback is much appreciated, and so are kudos ;-)

It was raining. It shouldn’t be raining. In fact, there were a lot of things happening that shouldn’t be happening:

The first one was, as we already established, the rain, because according to every weatherperson in Britain, the night in question was meant to be rather mild, and not an absolute flood.

The second thing was a car. A black Bentley sped through the (too damp) road. Inside said car was a soaked man, cursing in a rather colorful fashion. The thing about this car -besides the fact that it was playing “Bohemian Rhapsody” for the third time that day even though the tape inside was a Mozart concerto- Was that it was going 95 miles an hour in central London on a Friday night, with bits of seaweed and small crabs holding on for dear life.

The final thing wrong in this picture was, of course, the man who, for all effects and purposes, wasn’t actually a man. Behind the wheel was the demon Crowley, the serpent of Eden, Humanity’s temptation, a fallen angel who didn’t fall as much as vaguely sauntered downwards.

Crowley wasn’t cursing like a normal driver, you know the ones: who curse the weather and the pedestrians, and the cars who don’t move after the light went green, even though it’s only been green for about 0.3 seconds.

No, Crowley was cursing Hell, because after 6000 bloody years they had gotten an imagination and the first thing they did was throwing him in the bloody Pacific.

Forty minutes later the old Bentley pulled up near the back of an old bookshop (that had been in the Soho for longer than anyone remembered) and Crowley fumbled for his keys, ending up being stung by a sea urchin who had found residence in his pocket.

“Ow!” He threw the offending thing into a small vase of petunias (who had not been growing well enough so serves them right), “you little beastie.”

Suddenly the light inside was turned on and someone opened door. A man who was, again, not a man at all. The angel Aziraphale, wielder of the flaming sword, keeper of the eastern gate, Principalia of London, stood in the doorway, in striped pajamas.

Crowley had half a mind to thank the Almighty they weren’t tartan before he was tackled into a hug by said angel.

He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale as well and they stayed like that for a few moments before Aziraphale pulled away and crossed his arms:

“You’re soaked, you’re late and... Oh dear me, the Bentley is a mess, who are you and what have you done to Crowley?”

“I’m soaked, I’m cold, and the Bentley is wrecked, let me in and I’ll tell you.”

Aziraphale brought him inside, and they sat in the small kitchen, not wanting to stain the couch with salt-water.

“First of all, I’m not that late. What is it, ten o’clock?”

“It’s three in the morning.”

“Oh, alright then. Well, I have an excuse, and we have a problem.”

Aziraphale frowned.

“Apparently, down there isn’t scared anymore, and they got creative. I went to Winchester to get the-” His eyes widened, and he buried his face in his hands, groaning. “The chocolates.”

“What chocolates?”

“I was getting you spiced chocolates from a new shop and then, Bam! I’m under the damn sea, with bloody fish shoals around me. And the chocolates are probably ruined.”

“Oh, Crowley, dear, that was very sweet of you but…. Throwing you into the sea, and just leaving you there, when you can miracle yourself out? Is that all they did?”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up, and he was about to start a very offended monologue but Aziraphale continued:

“I mean, that is absolutely horrid, Crowley, but I thought they’d be angrier at you.”

“I think whoever did it didn’t want me to get hurt. They left me near one of the gates of hell, near the Mariana trench, and I heard some things. Word is, my boss is giving the Apocalypse another try. A new Antichrist.”

Aziraphale gulped and took a deep breath before answering:

“Who’s in charge of it?”

“Dagon, I think. Not sure who thought he’d mess it up enough to let me know, but…”

“We have to do something.”

“Precisely.”

“Go take a shower, my dear. I’ll make some tea, and we’ll think something up.”

“I think I’m going to need something a bit stronger than tea, angel.”

“Last time we did this drunk, things didn’t work so well, did they?”

“Point taken.”

Aziraphale set the pot on the stove and left the kitchen, stepping into the backroom of his bookshop. He opened one of the cabinets and pulled out a dusty bottle of Port wine. It was a gift from a now famous producer back when his great-great-great-grandfather only had three bottles in his cellar. Better safe than sorry.

His eyes drifted to a small glass case in the corner of the room. In it was a book with a charred cover, where, if you squinted really hard, you could make out an N, an A, and something ending in itch. It was one of Aziraphale’s most prized possessions. Anathema had tried to throw it away after everything was done but the sheer outrage she’d seen in Aziraphale’s face was enough for her to give up the idea and gift the book to him.

“The nice and accurate prophecies of Agnes Nutter, witch”

Aziraphale sat by the desk and sighed.

It had been two years since the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, or the Armageddon’t, as Adam had named it at Anathema’s “So glad we didn’t die” party.

Two years. Two years since he and Crowley had given each other’s bosses the scare of a lifetime. And a little less than two years since they had chosen their own side and accepted their feelings after six millennia of looking the other way (a little less than two years that included an outrageous amount of baking, a phone call that left both of them not quite happy, followed by a second call hat stated Crowley _could_ in fact pop in for a slice of cake, provided he didn’t actively went outside, and an alarm that did go off in July, but to an empty apartment, because on that particular morning, they’d been learning how to make crepes for breakfast)

Thirteen years since they had a conversation very similar to the one that was about to take place. Or maybe nothing like it.

He walked back into the kitchen just as the kettle started whistling and turned off the stove. Crowley walked down the stairs with his hair still damp, but no longer smelling of day-old sushi.

They moved to sit in the small couch.

“So…” Aziraphale started, unsure of how to go on.

“Yeah…” Crowley wasn’t much better.

“We might have to be competent this time” he joked.

Crowley chuckled:

“So, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Well, the whole nanny and gardener thing didn’t really work last time.”

“Too distant.”

“Exactly”

“We ought to be closer.”

“Do some actual parenting…”

They looked at each other, a mix of euphoria and terror in both their eyes (A significant improvement from last time, since Aziraphale actually got to see Crowley’s eyes throughout the entire conversation.)

There was more to the new arrangement than saving the world. This was bigger, or it felt bigger. They were going to raise a child. And they’d do it together.

They sealed the new Arrangement with a kiss. This time wasn’t an excuse. This time, it would work just fine. And this time, it deserved a capital A.


	2. The Decision

Saturday morning rose with a cloudless sky and chirping birds. The perfect spring day. Aziraphale and Crowley slowly placed two trays of biscuits and a bottle of Château Margaux in the back seat of the Bentley -now thankfully free of barnacles- before heading off to their monthly lunch at Jasmine Cottage.

After half an hour they fell into a comfortable silence and eventually circled back to the previous night’s discussion.

“How will we find the baby this time?” Aziraphale asked, “It’s not like you can just pop down to Hell and ask for the route.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. Someone wanted me to know about this. Someone downstairs disagrees with the end of times, if we find out who it is, maybe they’ll tell us exactly what’s happening.”

“Hmm. Alright.”

“The problem is, what do we do next? We have to keep both sides unaware for eleven years. And we have to actually _get_ the baby.”

“Well, it can’t be harder than facing Satan.” Aziraphale chuckled nervously.

“Well, Adam did that, not us.”

“Right. Maybe we ought to get some help.”

“Maybe.”

“Speaking of help, what’s that about gardening tips I heard you mumble on the phone this morning?” Crowley turned to him.

“Oh, Anathema can’t seem to make her roses look, well, not dead. I told her you – Crowley, the light’s red, slow down. SLOW DOWN! - I told her you wouldn’t mind lending a hand.” Aziraphale stopped holding to his door for dear life when Crowley stopped by the crosswalk.

“She won’t like my advice, but sure, I can try.”

When they finally got to Jasmine Cottage, they found the Them playing some kind of card game that involved a lighter and a charred cork in the front yard.

“Hello, my darlings” Aziraphale greeted.

“Hi guys.” Shouted Crowley from behind the brand-new scratch on the door.

They got small waves and mumbled greetings as they switched cards around, but Adam still spared them a look and that disconcerting I-know-everything-about-you smile. That small distraction made him miss the moment when the other three put down their cards and got him a small ashy circle in his forehead. Newt opened the front door with a smile and a smudge of flour on his cheek:

“Hi, there.”

Crowley wiped his own cheek in lieu of warning

“We’re making ravioli from scratch.” He explained, “I’m not that good at it.”

Aziraphale promptly offered to help and began telling Newt about this wonderful little restaurant he’d gone to in Rome around 1374 and Crowley shivered – damned 14th century.

Aziraphale ended up replacing Anathema in the kitchen as she guided Crowley to a small flowerbed in the backyard, she replaced her oven mittens with bright green gardening gloves and showed him the offending flowers. Quite frankly, when Aziraphale had brought it up, Crowley expected something bad. But he wasn’t quite sure how Anathema had managed to positively _burn_ the rosebuds.

The kitchen smelled of freshly grated cheese and tomato sauce as Newt set the table.

Aziraphale knocked on the door to the yard, interrupting the conversation:

“So, you just yell at them? That really works?”

“Yeah, sure. And it’s great for stress. Just throw in a few “or else…” and you’ll have the loveliest roses in the village before summer.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help his smile:

“Crowley, Anathema, lunch is ready. I’ll go and call the children.”

“No, hold on. Actually,” She looked between the two of them, “Newt and I wanted to tell you something.”

They walked in and Newt wrapped an arm around Anathema’s shoulder, fighting a grin. She took off her gloves to reveal a thin silver ring with three tiny pearls on top. Both of them had broad smiles on their faces. Aziraphale took a second catching up but then:

“You- you two- Oh that’s lovely, I’m so happy for you.”

He looked at Crowley, who had gone absolutely still. Aziraphale couldn’t really guess if it was good or bad.

He seemed to wake up from whatever trance he was on:

“That’s great. That’s really something, congratulations.”

“Thank you, and, um, well, we were thinking…” She looked back at Newt

“Well,” he continued, “We were thinking if you wouldn’t mind helping out with the ceremony.”

Crowley slowly looked from Aziraphale to the couple:

“Helping out how?”

“Well, you would be wonderful with the decorations, with the flowers and the venue, I could really use some advice on that, and Aziraphale could help us with the menu, I mean, out of all of us he actually knows what he’s talking about. And, maybe… maybe you could perform the ceremony itself?”

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide:

“I’m sorry, you want me to wed you, with the rings, and the “dear beloved”, and all that?”

“I mean, if it’s not too much trouble” Newt corrected. Anathema chewed on her lip, nervously.

“Of course not, I’d be honoured.” He turned to Crowley:

“Oh, I’d love to help, it sounds fun.”

Then they realized, and their smiles faltered:

“But we can’t.” Aziraphale’s expression was almost as heart-breaking as Newt and Anathema’s:

“Why?”

“Because they need to find my sister.”

Four heads turned to find Adam by the kitchen door. Nobody had even realized he’d snuck in:

“That’s it, isn’t it?”

Crowley kneeled by him:

“Your sister. Baby sister?”

The boy nodded:

“She’s not very happy, she’s in a bad place, too many people.”

Anathema interrupted:

“Hold on, when you say sister, you mean the daughter of…” she pointed down, eyebrows raised.

“I’m afraid so, yes. Hell seems to want an Armageddon one way or the other.” Sighed Aziraphale

“Apocalypse 2.0” Newt laughed nervously. He slowly turned to Anathema, silently asking _are you thinking what I’m thinking?_ Anathema’s widening eyes and raised brows told him that, yes, she was:

“The book!” groaned Anathema “Goddamn it!”

“What book?” The angel perked up

“There was a package delivered…afterwards.” Started Newt.

“The Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, witch. Never published, never opened.”

“Well, where is it?” Aziraphale’s enthusiasm was partly regarding the usefulness of the prophecies, and partly about the prospect of getting his hands on an unpublished manuscript by the author of the one and only true prophecy book in all of history (Crowley suspected the latter was slightly more important to him).

“We…we sort of…burned it.”

“You what?” Crowley’s question was significantly louder than he meant as Aziraphale seemed to hyperventilate at the thought of a burned first edition.

“We didn’t know we’d need it. And…”  
“Not knowing is better, makes sense. You get to do things by yourself.” Adam agreed.

“Well,” Aziraphale recovered from the shock, “We can talk about this after lunch, yes? Adam go get your friends and let’s eat.”

The impending end of days was forgotten over what turned out to be one of the best meals both Crowley and Aziraphale had ever had (and that was saying something).

The wine bottle was miracled full four or five times (because nobody was keeping score of it anymore) after the Them left to walk Dog and explore the occurrence of a new ice cream shop near the school.

So, the grown-ups were left alone, and proceeded to have enough alcohol to _want_ to talk about Apocalypse:

“So, y’re just going to take the baby, and raise her, juss like that?” Newt waved his glass perilously over the white armchair.

“I mean, how hard can it be?” Crowley moved to take off his classes but changed his mind at the last second, “We sssort of did it before-”

“How do you sort of raise a child?”

“I was the nanny,”

“And I was the gardener,”

“Tasked to guard the Antichrist!” Aziraphale toasted before he and Crowley looked at each other and started giggling.

Anathema frowned, seemingly trying to understand something that was both right in front of her and light-years away:

“The Youngs don’t have a gardener.” She dragged out the last r like a small purr.

“Yeah, we raised the wrong boy, for eleven years.” Crowley pouted.

“But it turns out that was good.” Aziraphale leaned back in his seat, hugging his glass.

“Yeah, Adam worked out fine.” Crowley shrugged, “And the swap was probal- prolb- porb- I’m ssure it wasn’t our fault.”

“You should move here, then.” Newt was looking at his empty glass as if it held all the secrets of the universe and Anathema poured him more wine, drowning away all that knowledge, “Adam’s a big brother, now, iss good for siblings to be together.”

“He’s right, y’know?” Anathema blinked slowly, “there’s a house across the street, the people moved to London, you should buy it, or at least check it out.”

Aziraphale and Crowley got up and walked down the street until they found a lovely cottage with a neon sign of a lady in a suit and a silly corporate name. They sobered up before jumping over the fence and unlocking the front door.

It was lovely, really. Everything that one thought about when they thought of a cottage in the country: big windows and a bigger fireplace, a tiny room that was just begging to be turned into a library, space for a greenhouse, and up the swirling wooden stairs, two more bedrooms with windows facing the sunrise

And it might’ve been from the outrageous amount of alcohol they had had in their bloodstream until a few moments ago, but they sat atop the stairs with a sigh.

Crowley looked at the library-to-be, and imagined Aziraphale with a toddler in his lap, reading them one of his prized first editions with that soft smile that to this day made his heart skip a beat.

It wasn’t that they didn’t like their home (because that’s what it had become, Crowley rarely stopped at his place these days), they felt like a couple on a never-ending honeymoon.

The last two years had been the happiest Crowley remembered being. For two people who had needed 6000 years to admit their feelings for each other, a few centuries of blissful “honeymoon” were the least She could give them (Crowley got a flash of a beautiful engagement ring on a hand other than Anathema’s at the thought of the very word honeymoon, but ignored it).

When Aziraphale looked down at the living room, he could almost see a small child running around before being swept up into a piggy-back ride by a sunglass-free Crowley, the sound of their laughter mingling in a summer afternoon.

“Crowley…”

“Yes.” Crowley cut in, looking down.

“What?”

“I believe the Americans have an expression: go big or go home. This is it, angel. Every single room of this house makes me think of how wonderful it could be to raise a child with you. If we’re going to do this…” He looked up at Aziraphale and the sheer affection in his smile stole away the rest of the sentence.

“Let’s do it right. Let’s make it our home, our family’s home.” Aziraphale was used to feeling love all around him, he even got used to perceive the different kinds of love, (with the help of his growing devotion for a certain red-haired demon), but the sudden tingle of the air when they both realized that _this was really happening_ took him by surprise.

“I love you, my dear.”

“I love you too, angel.”

The subsequent kiss was unfortunately interrupted when Aziraphale suddenly remembered they were, in fact, trespassing, and should probably go back to Jasmine Cottage. None of them minded much, though, they’d have more than enough time for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, explanation time. The card game Adam and the Them are playing is a Portuguese/Spanish card game called the donkey game, and it has a million variations (at least). this one is based off the one I played as a kid that involved the loser of the game to get an ash stamp on their face. by the end whoever got the least stamps, won. It's weird and regional and old, an so obviously forever-stopped-in-time-Tadfield has kids who play it.   
> Also, this is mostly TV show canon but I'm bringing in the book fact that Adam has an older sister.  
> keep that in mind for future reference ;-)  
> I hope you liked this  
> comments are love <3


	3. Chapter 3

For the rest of the afternoon, while Newt and Anathema slept their drunkenness away (because _not everyone can jus’snap their fingers and be fine, you know? We’re only human._ Newt had waved an accusing finger between them and they’d left them to it), Aziraphale and Crowley tried to work out _where_ the new Antichrist would be delivered.

“Ugh.” Aziraphale leaned back in the couch, rubbing his eyes under the reading glasses, “this was a lot easier when we could listen to Hell through the Bentley.”

Crowley jumped up:

“Oh, angel, you are a genius.” He grabbed Aziraphale’s face and pressed a kiss on his lips before bolting out of the room.

“Why, thank you,” Aziraphale managed to hold the door and follow Crowley, who was skipping (yes, skipping) towards his car, “But what stroke of geniality are you referring?”

“The Bentley, I can make it work again.” He turned around and back without stopping.

“You can?”

“I can try, it worked by itself in the bottom of the ocean, how hard can it be to make it work on purpose?”

As it turns out, it can be exceedingly hard to find Hell’s frequency, harder than any of them was prepared for, and by the time they gave up, the afternoon had become evening hours ago.

“Argh, I really thought we had something.” Crowley pouted.

Aziraphale didn’t answer, and they stayed silent for a bit. Suddenly the ground shook, and they weren’t in Tadfield anymore.

They got out of the car and tried to guess where they were instead: Beneath Aziraphale’s feet, the ground rumbled, as if a river ran through it just out of sight, and he stepped in a mix of snow and dark sand, no, not sand… ash?

He looked around, the sky was obscured by a heavy mist, but they seemed to be high up, except that it really wasn’t cold enough for that. Then it hit him.

A volcano.

“Crowley?”

“Yes?”

“We’re in a volcano, you’re aware of that, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And…”

“It’s not just _a_ volcano. We’re in the.. That big one, the Iceland one... Damn, I forgot the name, whatever, we’re there, here, gah.”

“We’re in Iceland?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow

“Another one of the gates of hell.”

“Right. So, not vacation time. Got it.”

Inside the car, the radio came to life, and in between the first chords of “Another one bites to dust” came a set of orders:

DAGON, LORD OF FILES, MASTER OF MADNESS, UNDER-DUKE OF THE SEVENTH TORMENT. MEET THE POSSESSED NURSES AT ST. MARY’S HOSPITAL. DO NOT MISTAKE OUR DARK LORD’S CHILD WITH A HUMAN.

“I’m fairly certain that last line was in there because of you, my dear.” Aziraphale chuckled after the song progressed without further hellish interference.

“Nah, they don’t learn that fast.” Crowley shrugged. “Now, could you, angel? I did it last time.”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and they were back where they had left.

“Well, I guess we should bid our goodbyes, we have work to do.”

\------------------------------------

St. Mary’s was… cosy. All warm lighting and flowerpots, it barely resembled a hospital. Doctor Fell and Doctor Crowley made their way through the halls until they found them: Two nurses who had clearly seen better days: one of them was a small woman who in any other context might’ve been a wonderful lady, but currently reminded the kind of witch that eats little children for dinner; the other one was all long limbs and runway figure, but under the influence of whatever demon possessed him, seemed to be made up of needles. Piles and piles of needles, all neatly strapped together by more flexible needles.

Crowley and Aziraphale waited for them to switch the babies and then got to work. As the two demons exited the hospital, with the small child in a wicker basket ready to be dumped somewhere -because they weren’t half as decent as satanic nuns- Aziraphale intercepted them:

“Good evening, might I ask what it is you carry with you?”

The demons looked at each other and then to Aziraphale in his pristine white lab coat -completed with a name tag and a stethoscope slung around his neck- and the taller one snapped his fingers.

Nothing happened.

Aziraphale looked around for any “witnesses” and smiled a positively angelical smile. His eyes shone bright white for a second and it was a miracle (quite literally) that he managed to pick up the small basket before it hit the ground. He stepped away from the two scorch marks on the ground and headed for the hospital.

(Far, far away, Nurse Rowley and Nurse Intern Davidson woke up in their respective houses, missing the memory of going home, or the last few hours of their shift.)

Meanwhile, Crowley was in the process of finding and soothing the new Antichrist before anyone walked in. The finding part of the plan was easy: The baby girl was the only one wrapped in a red blanket for a start, Crowley rolled his eyes at the lack of subtlety and picked her up. She had dark soft hair, round cheeks and grey eyes, the kind of not quite colour that new-born babies often have that ends up turning into something boring when they grow up.

Crowley soon found out that new-borns tend to make up for nine months of silence with some serious crying within the first few hours of their lives and had to hide somewhere away from everyone else. After a bit, the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Princess of This World, Mother of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lady of Darkness was comfortably asleep in his arms, having decided to take his index finger hostage.

Aziraphale knocked on the door to the small room he had found unoccupied:

“I thought it was you. So, did you find h- Oh.” He smiled at the sleeping baby, “She’s adorable.”

“Isn’t she? And she’s probably fit to be an opera singer with lungs like hers.” He reluctantly peeled his eyes away from what had to be the cutest baby on earth and looked at his angel, “Did you get the other baby?”

Aziraphale opened the basket, inside laid a dark-haired sleeping baby:

“I should return her to her rightful place. Meet you downstairs?”

“Sure.”

They kissed goodbye and left their separate ways. Crowley expected the Bentley to have a suitable car seat for the little girl, so it did, and he placed her inside carefully.

Aziraphale returned shortly after:

“I believe I know why the switch was made in this hospital, the royal family seem to be regulars.” He slipped in the passenger seat and half turned to check on the baby, “I suppose we have to pick a name now.”

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about that.” Crowley started the car and turned down the volume on Vivaldi’s _We will rock you_ , “How do you feel about Eve?” He smirked.

“Really, my dear? Isn’t that a bit too on the nose?”

“Any better ideas?”

“Not really, no.”

“There you go. It’s funny, you have to admit it. Honestly, it’s bloody hilarious.”

“Well, I suppose it is. And she does look like an Eve.” He smiled, “Oh, why not?”

And with those words, Evelyn Fell-Crowley -Eve for short- was now a proper British citizen with all the boring paperwork sorted. (And yes, Fell-Crowley, not Crowley-Fell, because as Crowley himself had put it, _that’s just poor wordplay_ )

They got back to Tadfield shortly after seven o’clock, and then proceeded to call the lady on the poster in front of the house, who showed up two hours later, with a mandatory smile on her face (both Crowley and Aziraphale knew it was fake for two reasons: firstly, she was a terrible actress, and secondly, they had called her at seven in the morning, having most likely woken her up, and nobody likes to socialize with those responsible for the end of a good night’s sleep.)

She showed them all the bits they already knew, and then showed them an adjacent small entrance that lead directly to the soon-to-be-library that Crowley was sure hadn’t been there the day before. If the real estate agent (Tiffany, her name was, and she had, in fact been woken up by a call shortly after seven on her day off, but she worked by commission, and the couple had a rather adorable daughter, so the smile wasn’t completely fake) was in anyway surprised, she didn’t show it, but Crowley looked at Aziraphale, who was both blushing and grinning proudly, and drew his own conclusions.

The deal was arranged for Monday, because nobody but lunatics (and those who worked by commission) did any business on a Sunday.

When they exited the house, Newt and Anathema were having breakfast in the garden and invited them over:

“Oh, she’s so cute” Newt cooed at the sleeping baby. Eve seemed to notice someone was talking about her and therefore chose that moment to wake up. The next few moments were spent between four people who knew absolutely nothing about babies coming up with a way to calm down a very loud one while her bottle was being prepared. They all failed miserably. Eve only stopped crying when she was given her milk. In that moment they all agreed that Crowley was probably right. That girl could grow up to break glasses by singing at them.

The Them showed up, not much longer, behind a very excited Adam who insisted that they we’re going to love her, really, and she was going to love them, and it would be so fun, without ever actually explaining who _she_ was. They fawned over the wide-eyed baby for about five minutes before going off to do something more interesting.

Adam turned to Aziraphale and Crowley before leaving:

“She likes you, I think, and her name too.”

He left before they could answer.

The trip back to London was anything but quiet. They decided to make a list of all the things they needed and all the things they needed to learn and such, which turned out to be an enormous list. Crowley stayed within the speed limit for the first time in his life, and they might’ve even ended up singing along to some of the songs.

Not that Eve noticed any of it, she was peacefully asleep, dreaming of whatever it is babies dream of (and huffing and babbling accordingly), and only woke up when they got home. This time they had everything ready before she could even pout.

They spent the afternoon taking care of that list. Never in the history of the universe had two beings of such incalculable power and nigh incalculable age had ever felt so dumb.

Toddlers they got; Both of them had taken care of Warlock for a few years. Tantrums, incessant why’s, scraped knees and bedtime stories, that they could handle. But all the business with actual new-born babies was going to be tricky.

“I’m sorry, they what?” Crowley jerked his head around, gaping

“They don't have kneecaps. They grow later.” Aziraphale checked the book again, no, he hadn’t misread it.

“Does it hurt them?”

“The book says it doesn’t, we’re just supposed to wait.”

“Alright, could be worse.” Crowley reopened his book, “We’re also supposed to not worry if she falls asleep with her eyes open.”

“Open? As in, just looking at us, but actually sleeping.”

“Yeah”

Aziraphale sighed and picked up the next book. Oh, yes, tricky indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, but celestial beings who have had the same corporation for 600 years learning about all the weird crap newborn humans go through has to be weird, right?  
> (flashbacks to the dozens of articles read for one scene that I will never forget as long as I'm alive because they are objectively terrifying)   
> *shudders in terror*


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, hi!  
> This week you get two chapters because I'm inspired ;)  
> But, here's the thing, this work is something very dear to me, and it's been hard to see it sink away, so, I feel weird asking this, but if you genuinely enjoy this story, please, please, please, let me know  
> A comment, hitting that tiny kudos button, the small things boost my writing inspiration immensely, so, if you like what I'm doing with this, let me know  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter  
> <3

Anyone who’s ever moved into anywhere knows it’s an absolute chaos. Moving in with a baby? Unthinkable. But Crowley and Aziraphale wanted to keep a low profile, so the moving trucks arrived on schedule, full of furniture, brand new baby things, books of uncountable value, and plants that somehow kept shaking after the truck had stopped. Anathema offered to help them move things around but ended up admiring the boxes of books, that Aziraphale went and tidied himself before she got too hands on and had the idea to _ask to_ _borrow_ one.

They took turns looking after Eve. Whoever was tidying something small without a lot of dust that didn’t require all that much of attention, had the little girl as company, staring at what were to her blurry blobs of bright color, babbling, crying out for food, a change of diapers, sleep, or attention.

Aziraphale and Crowley found it the best moving day they’d ever had.

Nevertheless, it was absolute chaos, and though they didn’t really need sleep, they gratefully slipped into bed in a room that wasn’t exactly decorated as it was a bed, a crib, a wardrobe, and three other piles of boxes.

They quickly fell asleep.

For about three hours, before Eve made herself known, and hungry.

The next few days were calmer, they figured some miracles wouldn’t hurt and with a snap of their fingers, most of the house was done.

Most of it.

They’d decided they wanted to decorate Eve’s nursery the proper way. She wouldn’t sleep there for a while, so they had time. And time they took, so much time, to even find a brand of paint that had no fumes _and_ had the exact color they were looking for.

The pastel yellow walls took some work to finish. Especially when the Them found themselves locked inside the house due to a rainy day, and ended up knocking on their door, paint brushes in hand.

Since their monthly lunches at Jasmine Cottage could now be held, 1) more often than monthly, and 2) no longer just in Jasmine Cottage, little Eve’s nursery was quickly full of paint stained people, and a brand new artwork that many years later would be called by all involved “it really does take a village”:

Eight pairs of hand-prints now stood in pastel yellow under the windowsill, and little Eve would grow to compare her own little hands to those of her family, just to prove she was a big girl now, but we’re getting ahead of ourselves. For now, that work of art was simply a quick break in the day’s work, and back to work they went.

And slowly, things composed themselves: all of Tadfield learned about the odd new family of what appeared to be a failed 80’s Rock-star, a librarian who took the concept of layers far too seriously and their new-born baby (who was perfectly normal even if it rained every time she got particularly upset because, well, water does slide off ducks rather nicely).

A man with a small dog walked in front of the house a few times in a row, one afternoon. Crowley was fairly certain he’d seen him before.

“Are you sure, my dear?”

“Yes, I’m telling you, angel, I know him. I just can’t place him.”

When the man crossed the street at an exceedingly slow pace for the fifth time that day, Aziraphale opened the door:

“Yes, hello, good afternoon, may I help you?” He smiled, not quite reaching his eyes, Crowley had come to call that Aziraphale’s mafia smile, and he doubted the mobsters liked it half as much as he did.

“Good afternoon, R. P. Tyler. Neighborhood watch. You’re the fellows that just moved in, yes?”

“Yes, that’s us. Are you here to welcome us to your lovely town?” Crowley joined the conversation, Eve balanced on one hip.

The man’s eyes widened. R. P. Tyler proudly boasted to whoever would listen that he never forgot a face. It wasn’t true. He just liked to think it was, and boast about it. Still, it’s rather difficult to forget the face of someone driving a flaming car and bothering to stop and ask for directions.

“You! I know you. Your car was on fire.”

“Oh, I rather think you’re mistaken. Our car is perfectly fine, see?” Aziraphale motioned to the Bentley, clean and parked neatly in front of the house. “Now, you were in the process of welcoming us to the neighborhood, I believe?”

“well- well, yes. Look, I have no problem with you, people-”

“ _You, people?_ ” Aziraphale’s tone was all sharp teeth and poison, almost _begging_ for a reason to blow up.

“You… You London blokes never stand still. So, you’re very welcome but you must know, Tadfield is a peaceful town. So, don’t come over with your- your cars on fire, and your fancy shops, and your bloody tourism hostels.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley. Crowley looked at Aziraphale. 

“Well, Mr. Tyler, you can have a restful sleep. Clearly, you’re the pillar of this community, so let me offer you a small piece of advice. It is not nice to lurk around someone’s house, and it is not nice to swear in front of children. Good day.”

Aziraphale shut the door and turned to Crowley, who was sporting quite the amused smirk

“ _It is not nice to swear in front of children_? Really, angel? That’s what you had to say to him?”

“Well, he was rather irritating.”

“Of course.” He stopped for a bit “I was actually scared there for a bit. I thought that was going to go a _very_ different way. Not sure if Eve could surpass witnessing a murder this early in life.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “You’re exaggerating, Crowley.”

“Really? I seem to remember a rather ill-mannered boy that left your bookshop to find his oh-so-special- brand new motorbike light up in flames.” Crowley teased, eyebrow raised.

Aziraphale picked up Eve from Crowley’s lap and took her to the kitchen, “I haven’t got the faintest idea of what you mean, my dear.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3

Anathema was a control freak. It was part of having your entire life written out for you. So, as any respectable control freak, she liked to make lists, hang them up on her wall, scribble small notes on them, add pictures, and generally do what made her lovely kitchen look like a disgraced detective’s apartment in serious need of a trash bin. Or at this point, a box of matches.

When Crowley walked in, he had to hold in a scream.

“Hey, Anathema, umm, what’s all that?”

“Oh, you came! Thank God! I’m trying to figure out the table setting, and the color scheme, that I think should really go with wherever we have the wedding, because the flowers need to match the-”

“Okay, okay, one thing at a time. First of all, where’s Newt?”

“Oh, he’s-” She paused for a bit, “I don’t actually know, he was out doing… something.” She frowned.

“Well, never mind, he’ll be back eventually.”

“What about Aziraphale?”

“Oh, he’s on a morning stroll with Eve.” Crowley smiled softly.

“Huh. So, I was thinking, the venue: we wanted something natural, like-”

“If you say barn, I will walk out through that door.”

“In the woods.”

“Hmm, go on…”

“Shadwell!” She yelled, eyes wide.

“What?”

“Shadwell. That’s where Newt is, we were talking this morning, he’s asking Shadwell to be his best man.”

“Oh. Well, that ought to make the whole wedding interesting, no doubt.”

“Yeah, that’s kinda why we had to talk about it first.”

“Right. So, lets start with the date, because if you ask me to make anemones blossom in November… well, I could do it. Do think I couldn’t. But to be honest, they’re not really worth the work.”

\-------

Aziraphale placed Eve back in her carrycot. They’d been sitting in a bench in the shade while she ate, and now it was time to go back home. That is, as soon as he could make the damn clips work. He was fairly certain that he’d read the instructions properly, and that he was doing things right, so why the Hell weren’t they cooperating with him. Eve started to get fussy, she wanted to move again, she liked moving around.

“Sweetheart, you have to wait a minute, alright? I’m trying to make sure you’re safe, you can’t go crying like, that, come on.” If anyone asked, Aziraphale would forever deny the slight frustration in his tone. Not that anyone would’ve noticed. If anything, they would’ve noticed the panic first.

“Trolley trouble?”

Aziraphale turned to find a blond woman smiling pitifully at him. Aziraphale hated being pitied, but at this point, he’d take the help:

“Can’t seem to unlock the clips.”

“Ah. I know those. Work of the Devil if you ask me, damned things. May I?”

Aziraphale stepped aside and the woman adjusted clips. They heard a _click_ and the wheels could move again.

“There’s a knack to them. You’ve got to pull _and_ push at the same time.”

“Oh, I see.” He smiled nervously.

“First child?”

“That obvious?”

“Don’t worry, we’ve all been there. I have two and let me tell you, if I were to have another, I’d still do something wrong. Everyone’s scared all the time, it’s part of it,…”

“Aziraphale.”

“Aziraphale, what an interesting name. I’m Deirdre. Deirdre Young.”

Aziraphale held back a small chuckle, didn’t that give a whole new level to _we’ve all been there_?

“Hey, mum. Hi, Mr. Fell.” Adam and his friends stopped their bikes near them, in a mingling chorus of greetings.

“Good Morning, Adam. Pepper, Brian, hello” He smiled. “Isn’t there one of you missing?”

“Wensley’s got allergies, he can’t go to the Wood today, so we’re going over for board-games.” Pepper explained.

“You know my boy, then?” Mrs. Young turned back to him.

“Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell are always at Anathema’s. Mr. Fell’s a mean cook.” Adam volunteered after Aziraphale stumbled on his answer.

It was a filthy lie, Aziraphale couldn’t fry an egg without a miracle (desserts, now that was another thing, give him something sugary to bake and you’ll be in paradise soon enough, but general cooking was... Complicated). Truthfully, though, nobody could really complain about his miracles, so they all pretended to believe he’d actually learned it in Paris, or Rome, usually under the threatening look of a very protective demon.

“Right, off you go, then. Oi, you be careful. And be home for lunch, Adam, your nan’s coming ov-” she called after them, but the bikes were already speeding down the road.

“So, you know Anathema.”

“Yes. She’s the one who told us about the house we moved into, in fact.”

“She’s a lovely girl. And quite handy as a babysitter. Apparently, Adam and his friends got in their heads that she’s a witch, which makes her the most interesting person to be around.” She laughed “A witch, imagine that.”

“Ha, yes. A witch. How silly.” He chuckled nervously.

“Anyway, I should go. Before the market runs out of what I need. But listen, if you or your husband need anything, we’re happy to help. All you have to do is drop by, we’re at number 4. It was very nice to meet you.”

“Well, thank you, nice meeting you too, but you see, Cro- Anthony and I aren’t actually-” he tried, but Deidre was already hurrying down the street, wicker bag in hand, looking at her watch.

Right

“Let’s go home then, shall we? you have a lovely nap waiting for you!” He cooed at Eve.

\---------

Crowley and Aziraphale took turns going over to Jasmine Cottage to help with the wedding arrangements. Whatever it was Anathema and Newt were trying to decide that day, the decision making process was hardly safe for human adults, let alone for children.

Because if Crowley had put down his money on Newt's ability to make Anathema relax, he would need a loan fairly soon.

If anything, Newt was worse than her: About as indecisive, definitely as stubborn and far, far more specific with his vision.

“We are _not_ inviting two hundred people, I don’t care how much you want to show each other off, hogback end has a limit, you want two hundred people, you pick a different spot.”

“But-“

“Send them a postcard, Pulsifer. I’ll pay the postal service”

Anathema resigned to his decision as well and jumped to the next topic.

Newt had to leave shortly after to submit the party permit (that yes, Crowley was aware they needed but they didn’t need “R. P. Tyler-Neighborhood-watch” to come knock at their door to warn them of it in the middle of trying to explain that pink and red do not, in fact _match, Anathema,)_

“Crowley, I was thinking-“

“Oh, smite me. “ he sighed

“well, now you’re just being rude.”

“Rudeness comes with the package, Missy. And I’m not being rude, not when your last sentence started with ‘I’ve been thinking’ ended with _macaroons.”_

“I told you, my mother likes them.”

“and I told you, if you mother wants them piled up as a wedding cake, she’ll have to get married again.”

“Anyway, that’s not my point, I wanted to ask you something. “

“Go on. “

“well, you’ve been helping a lot lately, and it’s been fun, so... I was wondering, would you like to be my maid of honor? Or, rather, my... Occult being of honor?”

Crowley small pout became a soft smile:

“Anathema, that’s- that’s very sweet of you, I’d be honored to.”

She grinned, giddy.

“ Couple of questions, though. Why me?“

“Well. You’re really my closest friend.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“What, you think it’s easy making friends when your entire life revolves around Armageddon?“

“Well- I- good point.”

“What was the other question?“

“Hmm?”

“You only asked one.”

“Oh, right, do I get a dress?”

“Can it be anything but black?”

“I’ll just pretend you didn’t throw out most of my wardrobe, then” he pouted and she laughed.

When he could finally convince her and the newly arrived Newt that wedding things were out of bounds for the rest of the day, Aziraphale brought Eve over for some idle chat over tea.

The Them weren’t that far behind either, and Crowley suspected one of Adam’s demonic gifts was a chocolate tracker, because he made a beeline for the kitchen counter, where Aziraphale’s freshly baked biscuits were cooling.

Pepper walked in with a grin on her face and the rest of it obscured by a camera.

A bright flash filled the sitting area and she lowered it again, proudly.

“Is this the most wicked birthday gift ever or what?” She balanced herself on the arm of the sofa, swinging her legs. She gasped in a _eureka_ moment, “I could photograph the wedding.”

Crowley knew for a fact neither Newt nor Anathema had hired a professional photographer, they hadn’t even considered it, mostly because when they told Mrs. Pulsifer the old woman had promised to not let go of the camera for the entire ceremony.

But Pepper’s excitement softened their nervous smiles.

“Of course you can.” Anathema smiled. Aziraphale looked at her, eyebrow raised, he could practically see the gears turning in her head as she predicted what was about to happen, and soon it came:

“We could do something too. Like be the flower Boys.” Brian suggested, sat on the floor, leaning against the couch.

“Actually, I think we’d be rather good at that.” Wensleydale piped in, taking a biscuit from Adam’s hand and sitting by the other boy.

“I hadn’t thought about flower boys.” Newt looked at Anathema. She had her legs folded under her, her head resting on his chest. “What do you think?”

“I think Crowley’s going to murder me if I tell him I want rose petals being thrown around.”

“I’m not personally up for killing you, as long as we don’t speak of the fairy light incident again.” He started, looking up from where he’d been trying to get Eve’s attention. “But we could do better than roses.”

“Alright then, that’s settled, we have a photographer and two new flower boys. How about you, Adam? Do you want to take part in the wedding?”

The boy considered it, munching on another biscuit.

“I could train Dog to deliver the rings.” He beamed.

It was agreed that if he could accomplish that by the wedding day, he was more than welcome, and if not, he’d be the ring bearer himself.

Newt secretly wished the training didn’t pan out. Dog made him slightly nervous.


End file.
